“Oh?” That amused him. A pen. A cell phone. Maybe even a wallet. But the first chapter of her manuscript? He never would have guessed that. “So, you want it back?”
Safe to say the answer to that question was as obvious as the slack, opened-mouth expression on Chloe’s face.
“Well, of course I want it back.” She took a sip of pale ale, swallowed, surveyed Dylan. “Did you read it?”
“Nope.” He lifted his handcrafted beer, the mouth of the bottle barely brushing his. “But I’m pretty sure I will now.”
Chapter 9
Chloe contemplated punching Dylan Hawke in the jaw.
What stopped her?
Well, it was that gorgeous face—the stubble-laced chin, dark, deep-set eyes, thick lashes. A fist to his face would impair all of that. Plus, it was easy to tell by his lingering make-her-skin-flush smirk, he was being facetious.
“It’s unedited. Only a draft. Reading it would be a pointless waste of your time.” She internally gagged, realizing those words probably sounded a tad desperate, as if she’d something to hide.
Oh wait. That’s right…she did have something to hide.
Eyes on the table, fingertips tapping his half-empty bottle, Dylan broke out in a subtle scoffing ha-ha. “What are you trying to hide? Did you write something about me?”
Yes. Chloe’s heart drummed, thumped, maybe even froze for a second. “No.” She washed back that not-so-little white lie with a swig of ale. “What would make you say that?”
“Why else would you try so hard to convince me not to read it?”
Annoyingly perceptive.
The waitress interrupted, delivering Chloe’s meal, then said all chipper-like, “The karaoke contest will begin in a few minutes. Did you sign up for it?”
Chloe and Dylan shook their heads.
“Interesting.” She popped her chewing gum. “I’ll leave this sign-up sheet here for y’all to add your names to, just in case you get the urge to sing,” she said, dropping the paper on the table before she trotted away.
“Are you into karaoke?” It was a keen topic shifter for Chloe; although, she discerned there was no getting around coming back to the discussion sooner or later. She needed that manuscript in her possession as much as a bee needed nectar from a flower.
“Not one bit.” His stiffened reaction gave Chloe the upper-hand on just what card to pull.
“I’ll play you for it.”
“Play me for what?” Dylan’s head tilt was accentuated by a set of furrowed brows. Even with a look of confusion, he was the kind of heart-throbbing-hot that was hard not to gawk over.
Keep it together, woman. It would serve her well to focus on getting back those first pages of Project Sizzle. Ignore his face, the set of pecks bulging through his T-shirt, and that head, full of the thick hair she wanted to run her fingers through.
“My manuscript. It’s a contest, right? This karaoke thing? I propose we get up on stage, sing a song. Crowd chooses the winner, who, in return, gets the manuscript.”
Brilliant.
Arms folded, Dylan threw his head back in a chortle, then anchored a hard, narrow-eyed glare on Chloe. “No.”
“Oh, I get it. You hate losing.” She lifted a piece of beer-battered fish off the plate and chomped.
“First of all, I wouldn’t lose.”
Chloe blinked twice, then fixed eyes of intent on Dylan.
“What?” Dylan returned a set of fixed eyes on her.
“You said, first of all. So I’m waiting for the second of all, that typically follows.”
Dylan rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not doing karaoke.”
“Then why come to a karaoke party if you don’t plan on—”
“Fine. Whatever,” Dylan grumbled. “You win.”
“I win what? My manuscript back? Wow. I’ll admit, this was way easier than I thought.” A victory smile spread over her face. It was all she wanted, after all: the words on the first drafted pages of Project Sizzle never to be seen by him.
“Not so fast there, Sherlock. I meant, fine—as in…I’ll be more than thrilled to play you for it.” Dylan’s confidence glowed like a jellyfish in the dark. But that didn’t deter Chloe.
That much.
“Great. Then I’ll sign us up.”
Over an hour later, the stage, located in the center of Wilde Pirate, was on fire, the crowd of teachers, regular customers, and a few tourists cheering each performer on as they sang and danced their semi-tipsy buns off.
Uneasiness swirled in the pit of Chloe’s stomach while she and Dylan stood in the wings, only two karaoke acts before them. “I’m kind of nervous.”
Apparently, they were the last to add their names to the participation sheet the waitress left behind. The preceding performances had been hysterically entertaining, especially Liam and Samantha’s rendition of The One That I Want from the movie Grease.
“Getting cold feet?” Dylan rocked back on his motorcycle-booted heels, hands in his pockets, the compound word smug-look practically written in bold all over his face.
“No,” Chloe hissed, turning her back on him. Peeking at the group of older ladies on stage, she added, “I’ve so got this.”
No joke, she damn well better have it in order to get that manuscript back. Judging would be done by the crowd’s roars, and all Chloe hoped was that the shouts for her performance would be louder than her opponent’s.
“Sure you don’t wanna back out now?” Dylan singsonged his brash retort from behind her.
Chloe’s skin quivered at his proximity. With her eyes squeezed shut, she pushed away thoughts of him moving even closer, wrapping his arms around her.
Woman, breathe. “And miss seeing the look on your face when you lose?” She spun around to face Dylan, his lips widely parted, eyes blazed with shock. “Even more so than the look you’re sporting now.”
Two points for Chloe Davenport.
Roars from the crowd grew loud then soft as the ladies, who sang We Got The Beat, walked off stage. Their exit only meant one thing: either Chloe or her cocky opponent would be performing next.
Chapter 10
Once on stage, Dylan tried not to freak out. And the whistles that came from a few women lurking in the crowd, certainly didn’t help matters.
Thoughts of his conversation with Liam—you know, the one when he bragged no one could convince him to partake in karaoke—flashed through his mind like a mob of lightning strikes. Turned out, no one other than Chloe was the hidden caveat to his, now useless, declaration. He wanted to hate himself for being so taken by her. Drawn to her. Downright mesmerized. You think he cared about that damn manuscript she seemed so desperate to get back?
Not really.
All right, maybe he was a tad curious.
Yet, he was even more curious about how it would feel to taste her heart-shaped lips. To graze his fingertips along her smooth skin. To wrap his arms around her.
Still, he wasn’t about to lose, regardless of how drop-dead-alluring his opponent was. Then there was Samantha, who’s unmistakable yelp could be heard in the crowd with a timely, Go for it Dylan, shout-out.
Crap.
If he made a fool of himself, he’d have to give his sister the weekend off.
Gritty tenacity would carry him out of Wilde Pirate a winner. No flipping doubt about it.
Stage lights dimmed.
Small beads of sweat formed on his forehead.
Then the words to the song began…
Oh, my gawd, Becky. Look at her butt.
Yep, Dylan was sure he would pull out a karaoke victory to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s, Baby Got Back.
Microphone in hand, he hopped around, turning his back—well, actually, his denim-clad rump—to the roaring crowd while the beat thumped and bumped.
As Dylan twerked and gyrated, the words I like big butts flowed out of his mouth like a lyrical meteor shower. The audience participated as they joined in, rapping along to the popular 90s tune. Some even jumped on stage, act
ing like Dylan’s very own satirical backup dancers. By the time the four-minute song was over, Wilde Pirate was a blast, and the crowd chanting Dylan! Dylan! Dylan! prompted him to simply drop the mic before strolling off stage to the curtain-covered wings.
“I’m impressed,” Chloe said, blue eyes round with sarcasm.
“Don’t hate.”
“Hate? Actually, you warmed them up for me.”
“Oh, as if my performance was your very own opening act.”
“That’s right, Sir Twerks A Lot.”
Pulling her close, kissing the sneer right off those full, gloss-coated lips, would have been a classic in the moment move. But it’s not like they were the hero and heroine in one of Chloe Davenport’s novels, for crying out loud.
So instead Dylan said, “Good luck out there,” in a tone that mimicked his mockery-filled expression.
“I feel like you’re being sarcastic right now.”
Dylan’s folded arms, head tilt, and half-smile was all he needed to offer up in response.
And likewise, it seemed all Chloe needed to offer was a simple “Hmm,” before she pranced on stage, the scent of her vanilla perfume making Dylan’s lips part into a subdued, wow.
Damn it if the woman didn’t smell just as good as she looked. Good thing she probably sucked at karaoke, right?
Uh…nope.
Because on stage, Chloe glowed like an angelic being from above.
When the music began and she belted out the first words, “I stay out too late…” to Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off, Dylan knew he was done. Never mind her flirty, when did she even have time to choreograph moves, the crowds cheers, and the times she slipped in a few taunting glares at him as he stood in the wings, watching like a groupie who’d been awarded a backstage pass. Done because he knew damn well, there was no way he would be able to keep his distance from the woman who had his heart beating again.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, by the sound of your voted cheers, it looks like we have ourselves a good old-fashioned tie.” Wilde Pirate’s owner, Conor Callaghan, spoke into the microphone as he stood in between the two finalists of the karaoke contest. “So, as per tradition, a tie requires a tie breaker. Am I right?”
“Battle! Battle! Battle!” is what the crowd began to chant, while the two finalists—Chloe and Dylan—stood, hands clenched to their sides, both pretty much wearing the same bug-eyed-slack-jawed expression. These two…not even a couple, yet they were already beginning to look alike. How sweet.
As for Dylan, he thought his Baby Got Back performance was in the bag. Now, he’d have to compete against her to claim the title and that manuscript—which he still cared very little about, anyway.
Funny thing about the battle: Wilde Pirate rules dictated the finalists were required to switch songs, which meant Dylan would have to sing and dance to Taylor Swift’s Shake It Off and his breathtaking opponent would have to sing—rather rap—to Sir Mix-a-Lot’s Baby Got Back.
Dylan’s face turned fifty shades of pale, while Chloe’s seemed to gleam.
“Good luck out there,” she said, lips pulled into a sultry smirk.
“And why do I feel like you’re being sarcastic right now?”
“Because I totally am,” she replied with a single shoulder shrug and a smile just as cheeky as her retort.
Dylan walked on stage, head down, palms clammy, the crowd’s roar doing nothing for the queasy mess gripping his stomach muscles. Taylor Swift was not something he was used to.
Come on, man, you’ve got this. Just read the words on the screen.
This would be the one time Dylan appreciated that overbearing conscience, popping in his head just as the song began to play.
I, stay out too late…he sang along, raking his fingers through his hair, eyebrows raised, hips swaying as he inched closer and closer to the audience. To his surprise, the words to the song came to him easier than he expected. So did his moves—which had the women in the audience swooning and the men respectfully laughing their asses off. And when it was over, Dylan once again dropped the mic as he walked off stage, the crowd bawling for an encore.
“It’s as if that song were meant for you.” Sardonic amusement glinted in Chloe’s eyes. “I don’t think I’ll be able to beat that.”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure you won’t,” he quipped, enjoying their repartee. That urge to pull her close and kiss her surfaced again, and he may have done it.
If she hadn’t skirted right on stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came Conor’s voice. “Let’s see if this beauty can top Dylan’s production.”
The audience went batty.
Sir Mix–a-Lot’s song began. Oh, my gawd, Becky…
Eyes glued to Chloe, Dylan’s face lit up as he observed her perform a mini Baby Got Back concert, admitting to himself, hers smothered the heck out of his. The way she bounced around the stage, those subtle twerk-like moves showcased her mischievous side like a display of diamonds at a jewelry store.
But the woman is no diamond in the rough. And her performance ended way too soon.
After being summoned back on stage, Dylan stood beside Chloe while Conor instructed the audience how they were to choose the winner.
“Now, you all know the routine,” Conor narrated into the microphone. “The one who gets the loudest cheers, wins. Plain and simple.”
Leaning closer to nudge Chloe’s shoulder, Dylan whispered, “You gave a remarkable performance,” then smiled at the pink hue that crept up on her cheeks.
“Likewise. And, I’m super thrilled I was able to capture yours on video.”
Dylan needed a moment for his brain to connect the dots. “Wait. What?”
“Yep. I figured something like that may be useful to me in the future.”
“Oh, so you’re sassy and efficient.” Not to mention enchanting, even when she was being brash.
“A jack of all trades. You know”—she elbowed his side—“if, for some reason, I need some sort of a bargaining chip.”
“Blackmail?” Dylan held his belly as he cackled. “Without a single measure of a doubt, you can best believe I’m reading that manuscript now, missy.”
Conor walked behind Chloe, hand hovering over the top of her head as the crowd yelped cheers with a small mix of jeers.
Great, she probably won.
And when Conor walked behind Dylan, the crowd went buck wild.
Chapter 11
Dylan Hawke. Of course he’d won.
And Chloe wasn’t about to hang around and hear him gloat about it. She was keen on slipping out unnoticed, as the crowd—mostly women—pounced on stage like a pack of hungry cougars.
Silly of her to think winning the manuscript back, could be that easy. Fact is, it would have been far less of a hassle for her to break into Dylan’s place and retrieve it herself.
Not a bad idea.
Come on, seriously? She knew better than that.
Goose bumps formed on her shoulders and arms as the cool ocean breeze whispered by. She didn’t mind walking back to the rental from Wilde Pirate. Fortune’s Bay wasn’t a dangerous place, and at only a little past 8 p.m., the sidewalks were still littered with people laughing and singing; albeit most were probably smashed.
Just a half a block into her journey home, she heard the all-too-familiar vroom-vroom sound of what proved to be Dylan’s Harley as he pulled alongside her.
“Want a ride home?”
“I’m not supposed to accept a ride home from strangers.”
“Oh, am I a stranger now?”
Okay, perhaps stranger wasn’t the best word choice. But she’d walk, as long as needed, to avoid two things: mixing company with the man she lost karaoke to, and getting on the back of that motorcycle—no matter if Dylan Hawke was the sexiest biker her eyes ever fell on.
“Stranger than me,” she said, irritated something more sassy, or grammatically correct, didn’t fly out of her mouth.
“You’re upset you lost?”
Chloe kept
trotting along, gaze straight ahead.
“I won’t let you walk home alone. I’m not that kind of guy.”
Picking up pace, annoyance moved through her body. Please. Just. Go.
Dylan pulled over, cut the Harley’s engine, hopped off, then unfastened his helmet as he hurried to catch up to her.
“What are you doing?” Careful not to look at him, Chloe high-stepped it, even faster.
“If you won’t accept a ride from me, I’m walking you home.”
“That’s ridiculous. I can make it just fine on my own.”
“Come on, Chloe. We’re going to the same place. Just hop on Tamale and we’ll be home in—”
Chloe stopped in her tracks. “Wait. Tamale?” She tried to swallow the impending burst of giggles as she faced him, but failed.
“What? Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of a guy naming his Harley.”
“Yeah, but Tamale?”
To her surprise, Dylan stretched out a beckoning hand as he stepped closer. “Let me give you a ride home. Plus, I’d like to turn over that manuscript you seem so desperate to get back.”
“You won it, fair and square.” Chloe turned on her heel, began that brisk walk again—a blatant stubborn streak was one of her flaws, this she was fully aware of.
Once Dylan caught up to her, he cupped her elbow; his subtle grasp was warm, sending her ocean-breeze induced goose bumps on a hike. “Please. I’m waving the white flag here.”
Slowly, Chloe pivoted, flicking her chin up to face him, meeting his gaze, soft and meaningful. On their own, those eyes, the color of brown sugar, were enough to make her heart flutter ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. But it was his proximity that sent a cold—or maybe it was a warm—thrill up and down her spine. The word “Okay,” sprung nervously from her throat. “Only if you promise to tell me why you chose the name Tamale instead of something like Blue Thunder or Mistress.”
“Wow, you’ve got quite the imagination there, Miss Davenport.”
Lovestruck in Fortune's Bay: A Fortune's Bay Novella Page 6
